


at dawn

by skittlesjedward



Category: Jedward, X Factor (UK) RPF
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Flashbacks, Implied Relationships, Implied Twincest, M/M, implied PTSD, mild drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 15:23:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1783882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skittlesjedward/pseuds/skittlesjedward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>As it is, you feel rotten and exposed in your t-shirt and pants, the orange glow from the streetlights so unflattering. Liam isn't even looking at you, more focused on smoking and keeping the wind from messing with him too much, it seems, until he suddenly turns toward you and offers you the remainder of his cigarette.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"I don't..." you bite back the rest of that well-practised line because you know full well Liam knows what you do and don't do. </i>
</p><p>One-shot; Liamward, plus hints of cest. M for almost-sex and references to mild drug use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	at dawn

Bleary-eyed, you totter down the hallway in your bare feet, trying to stay quiet but this isn't your home so you don't know where all the creaks are. It doesn't matter when you hit one, or two, or three; John sleeps like the dead and as far as you know Liam's just the same. Water. You just want water, your parched mouth can almost taste the slick coolness in its need and your proximity to the kitchen, but then something stops you in your tracks. A shadow, a figure, ambling towards you, tall yet stooping and your heart leaps into your throat and hammers hard. "Shit," he hisses, and you jump at the same time before you collide and it's only Liam but then. It's only Liam.

You blink at each other in the darkness for a moment or two before he breaks the stifling silence. "What are you doing up?" And you wonder the same of him but it's kind of his place so you suppose if he wants to wander his halls at 4am he can do so without having to explain himself, least of all to you. You explain that you're getting a drink, and even though you never asked, he tells you he's going for a fag, and so you walk in the same direction for a few beats.

He's so close you could brush your arm up against his in the hall; feel the hair there tickle against your skin, your knuckles could graze, you could tangle fingers. You don't. The air feels heavy and you guess that this is what awkward feels like. You had almost known before but it's been a while since you've associated with anyone other than John, so, being with others again is like a crash-course in social etiquette. You stop at the entrance to the kitchen and for some reason so does he, until you clear your throat and he flails an arm in the direction of the balcony. "Fag," he mumbles, mostly to himself, and you'd giggle were your tongue not stuck to the roof of your mouth thanks to nerves and thirst combined.

The first cupboard is wrong, it's plates and what appears to be magazines. In the kitchen? Okay. The second is something like a medicine cabinet maybe because the shelves rattle like bottles full of pills and you are seriously debating just sticking your head under the tap, but that's gross. The third is books and tea, so much tea that an open box of bags falls down from somewhere above you and hits you right on the head, clunks to the floor and skids somewhere you can't see. You're in the middle of cursing and bending down when you sense someone's eyes on you and stand up abruptly, squinting in the dark till you can see Liam standing in front of you with a glass. He offers it without saying anything and you take it without saying thank you.

He hasn't smoked yet, you can tell. You didn't hear the door opening to the balcony and he doesn't smell like cigarettes, either: it's hardly super sleuthing. You down the glass in three gulps and get another ready to take back to bed when you're sure you see Liam motioning for you out of the corner of your eye. Your eyes are gritty and you're tired but when you blink, he's still doing it. So you go, because you can't not. The air is cold outside on the balcony and your bad knee unconsciously crooks inward as it does when you're nervous, but this time you're both nervous and cold, and the cold makes it ache a bit still. Pyjamas would've been the smart idea but you hadn't planned on staying the night. It was just that Liam got John a bit too stoned and he fell asleep hours ago. As it is, you feel rotten and exposed in your t-shirt and pants, the orange glow from the streetlights so unflattering. Liam isn't even looking at you, more focused on smoking and keeping the wind from messing with him too much, it seems, until he suddenly turns toward you and offers you the remainder of his cigarette.

"I don't..." you bite back the rest of that well-practised line because you know full well Liam knows what you do and don't do. He probably knows you've never had an actual cigarette before either but what the hell, if it buys you another minute with him without John around then it's all good. You roll your eyes at yourself and take the cigarette, pull a quick draw before you can talk yourself out of it and immediately cough and drop it. The wind blows it three floors below you to the street before either of you can do anything, not that a move was made in either direction. Liam laughs and you do too briefly, once you've stopped coughing, and then you just glare haughtily until he apologises. "That was gross." You realise a beat too late what the taste is, and now you're mourning, but not for the cigarette bouncing down the road beneath you.

"Your hair's getting long," he says suddenly, softly, and it startles you but not as much as his fingers carding through your fringe and rubbing absently at the tips. If the hallway was awkward, this is worse; you're sure he can probably see you shaking, and no matter how hard you wish to stop, it's nothing on how much you wish he'd just kiss you. He starts to ask you if you're cold at the same time that you try to tell him you should go back to bed, because this isn't right, except you don't voice that part. Instead you both try to speak again and it ends up a tangle of words and laughter but his hand is still in your hair and it hurts to look up at him so you don't. Then he's making you, his hand on your chin and tipping up, and you want to say  _please, no - please, stop,_  but all that comes out is  _please_.

Your mouths meet once, dry and plasticy, and it's not great but anything is good when it's him, and everything is better once he pulls back to dampen his lips and then moves in again. You  _need_ ; need to need him, need to be normal, and a soft noise escapes you despite your best efforts, a hand betraying you and settling on his chest. He's warm there and his kisses are deep, making you so giddy you could melt. It's a little strange how he doesn't speak, not to protest or to plead or anything, just kisses you until you can't breathe and your head swims. Soon enough your thoughts aren't going anywhere else than right here so it's easier this way, at least.

In moments he's pressing fingers into your wrist, tugging, urging you to turn in a semicircle on the small balcony and there's nowhere to go really, so you're pressed up against the railing and hissing as the cold metal digs into your stomach where your shirt's ridden up. You almost protest, the half-syllable of his name dying in your throat when his mouth meets your neck. A shard of guilt spears you somewhere deep inside when you feel him holding back now, no bites, just kisses, open-mouthed and warm. Neither of you want to get caught and you try to push thoughts of John out of your head, a difficult task until Liam's hands close over your hips and you just stop thinking altogether mostly.

His fingers are cold where they sneak under the hem of your shirt and then one of his hands full on grabs your arsecheek, squeezes until you squeak and cant your hips back, craving more. Fingers slide beneath the edge of your pants, cold in contrast to your surely-flushed skin and you purr, rock your hips back against his hand again till he's properly palming your arse now. You always thought his hands were amazing and they still are in the way that they make you feel small and sexy, wanted, as his fingers knead at most of your flesh with no need to stretch out. His hand withdraws suddenly and you whimper without meaning to, without thinking, just sad at the loss of contact and then there's the wet sound of him sucking on his fingers, the only thing you can hear except for the birds far off, starting to wake. Your legs tremble again, bad knee bowing, as his other hand peels down your pants and lets them end up unceremoniously midway down your thighs, but you can't care. 

Those big hands grab at you again and spread you open and you shudder, embarrassed and excited all the same, squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation. He doesn't make you wait long: a slick fingertip rubs at you in slow, purposeful circles soon enough and you're shaking, hands gripping the balcony railing with gusto, now, lest your legs give out far too soon. Oh God, you think, maybe even say, but then you're thinking that if God could see you right now He'd be horrified - what kind of a whore do you look like, pants bunched up round your legs with a man pushing a finger inside of you on a fucking balcony of all things? So you try not to think about God but the word falls from your mouth again in a broken pant when Liam's finger does finally enter you and God, God, God, it's so good that it can't be wrong.

He's not even all the way inside when your knee jolts against the railing, sending white-hot pain up through your leg all the way to your grit teeth. "Fuck," you hiss, loud, moving to clutch at it when your hands slip on the damp rail and in a split-second you're almost biting metal and there's enough light out there now to show you how high up you really are.

Your head reels and nausea swims in your stomach and you're 13 again, clinging to a doorframe and being pushed this way and pulled that way until two nails snap and you cry out, letting go. You're barrelled into John and your heads collide painfully and they're laughing, jeering, urging you to kiss, kiss like the little faggot weirdos that you are, and John's crying and his face is all red and contorted and you actually want to, just to make him feel better, just to make him stop.

It's the worst sound in the world, your twin brother wailing, but you soon realise you're doing it too, and it's such an ugly, broken noise but you can't stop. Someone pushes your head into John's again and you feel your mouth smash painfully against his jaw, taste metal spreading over your tongue as your lip splits and you know for sure you'll have to tell Mam you fell off your bike if this is as bad as it feels.  _No, no,_  you're saying as they pull you apart and try to wrestle you into something,  _no, please, don't_. It's laundry sacks from downstairs, you recognise the sickly smell of school detergent and suddenly you're being lifted into the thing, someone's got your legs held so tight you can't even kick.  _This is it,_  you think, as they hurriedly tie up the top in knots and double knots.  _This is it, I'm going to die and I never got to say a proper goodbye to John, save for that stupid 'kiss'_.

"John!" You cry out, and wriggle to get free, and Liam's got your hand behind your back where he kept you from falling, trying to soothe you, see what the hell is going on but you're lost now. "John, I love you," you sob, and they laugh like crows, hoist you up in the air and your stomach flip-flops because you know where the window was and you can definitely feel the frame digging into your stomach as they tip you over the edge. "No!" you kick out your legs, bad knee be damned, and Liam, stunned, backs off enough to give you the space to turn around but as you whirl you elbow him in the face. "Get the fuck off me!" you're screaming and he's groaning, clutching his nose as blood gushes, thick and dark in the dawn.

"Edward, what the fuck, calm down, it's me, it's-"

You shove both palms at his chest, hard, push him away from you and tug up your pants then work on the balcony door, thankful for how quickly your legs really can carry you until you're on the bathroom floor, emptying tonight's sushi into the toilet. There's a presence you instantly realise as John next to you and you sink into him, letting him shush you and rock you and kiss your hair until you stop sobbing. "Nightmare," is all you can say, and it's all he lets you say before he scoops you up and carries you back to bed. You daren't look in the direction of the balcony.


End file.
